


Get By

by orphan_account



Category: Hornblower RPF
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-28
Updated: 2010-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:10:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lads, allow me to present: Things That Paul Likes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get By

1976

Joe was only trying to rile you up, because at least that was more entertaining than staring out the window at the rain. "I've got a list," he said, his legs hanging off the bare side of the armchair. You had been listing the reasons why Everton were champions and Liverpool were rubbish (the last two years didn't count, and besides, it was about loyalty, right), and Mark was disputing it only for something to do, because of course you all agreed. McGanns stuck together.

So Liverpool were arse, even though they kept winning, as Mark pointed out, and Joe said, "I've got a list for ya, Paulo," grinning bright and hard. "Lads, allow me to present: Things That Paul Likes." He'd said it with a flourish; always had done a decent impersonation of the Queen. Steve, splayed out on the floor, started sniggering.

That had been when it started. 

 

*

 

"Maggie down the pub," Mark said definitely, throwing a bony arm round Steve's shoulders when he whistled and your cheeks turned hot. 

You were walking down near the docks, a clear evening light all around, falling over the buildings and water. It was coming into Friday night, you had nothing to do and nowhere to be. Steve wanted hot chips from the shop as though he could afford it, and every time you passed someone with a bundle of sweating newspaper in their hands he would want to go after them, maybe try to charm a few chips for himself. 

Out on the water there was a lone tug angling in to the wharf, churning up white spray; these days you barely saw any ships lining up like they used to, and there were more kids kicking around the docks than men working. It was the same everywhere.

"That dark-haired girl at school. The one who always watches him." 

"That's shite," you murmured, shoving your hands in your pockets. "She does not."

"Ahh, see," Mark crowed, "he knows who we're talking about! Can't fool us. She's sweet on you."

"She's not."

"She's got 'Paul' written on her notebook!"

"Yeah, Paul bloody McCartney, ever heard of him?" 

"Crisps on bread," Steve added, and Mark sighed. 

"Do you ever think of anything besides food? Honestly, mate. Try again." Mark liked to encourage the best in your younger brother. It was heartening, in a way that made you glad you weren't the baby of the family. 

Steve tried again. "Father Tarrant's vestments!" 

Mark shook his head dramatically but you laughed, and the sound seemed to echo out round the buildings and the sinking dusk.

 

*

 

Things You Actually Like:

  * Beer, when Joe gives you some
  * Music
  * The panto on at the Empire every Christmas
  * Athletics
  * Maggie down the pub
. 


*

 

1989

You always found the city easy at night; easy to be in and look at; despite the fact it was full of people being awake it was still restful. But Annie was different. She liked to get out of the city and the buildings and so when you pulled up on the side of the road, she was out before you'd even shut off the engine. 

It was late summer, the air just this side of comfortable. Overhead the sky was full of dashed clouds and stars. 

"I'm sick of this," she'd said, which meant that what you were saying wasn't good enough, and you already knew that anyway. She was angry and you had to piss so you pulled over and went straight for the hedge that bordered the field. 

You've never bothered to think what it was like for your dad, with four boys to look after and have them looking at you for everything. He just seemed to manage. Of course, he did things the right way round -- and you can imagine the exact look that will be on your parents' faces when you tell them how you _haven't_. They'll want you to get married.

You're desperate for a beer, a smoke, your car.

It's dark enough that you can't quite see everything, but the moonlight is lying white on the grass, and somewhere behind you she's waiting. 

 

1996

What's that saying? Those who fail history are doomed to repeat it. Something like that. 

You're going to be famous, you suspect, for being the one who was left on the fringe of one of the biggest shows in television history, the not-quite, the almost-ran. It's beginning to feel like a theme, a standard to hoist.

You're in Surrey, funnily enough, and you might just be a few too many sheets to the wind, and you feel entirely too aware of all the faces staring at you. The Doctor Who movie was popular in the UK, if nowhere else. People have started stopping you on the street, and staring at you in pubs. You find you're wishing you had something other than spirits on the table, something stronger and pure.

Outside it's dark and wet, not raining but the air and roads are still heavy with it from before. Oil stains on the tar, folded umbrellas and empty chairs outside. It's probably the same back in Bristol, but you're not welcome there to find out. Annie said, "I'm sick of this," said it like she was wrung out, tired, heartsore, and you had to go.

You've got mates, invites, offers like you wouldn't believe. You haven't failed.

You're just tired. Wrung out.

 

2000

It's been a long haul, you think. There are messages on the machine, none of them from Annie. Two from your agent about a Doctor Who convention, and one from Joe that's really about seeing how _you_ are rather than your boys. 

Your boys are at home. It's Monday morning. You make coffee and drink it at the window.

You're due back on set tomorrow, and you can't remember ever being quite so grateful for work.

 

Things You Like Now:

  * Sleep
  * Sex
  * Everton
  * Decent scripts
  * Being in Menorca
  * Sylvester McCoy, thank God
  * Coffee
  * Coffee
  * Coffee
. 


*

 

_Hornblower_ is the kind of film you think of as reliable. It's good work, and it's respected, and there's a chance it could last. You got the job and had to fly out to Menorca, stepped off the plane and shielded your eyes from the sudden strength of the sun. 

It's an interesting bunch of people, some you know and some you don't. Two days in to the shoot you could see several things about your new co-star. Mainly that he was painfully young, and maybe more talented than you've ever been. He says he used to play rugby, and given that his legs are sticks just waiting to be snapped by some heavy forward or a strong wind, you think he's probably the kind of lad who doesn't like to be left out of anything. Even if it is, as they say, for the best. 

You haven't read the books but you know enough to say that Hornblower is one of the great characters of literature. Ioan plays him as brilliant, decent, almost innocent. William Bush, on the other hand, is perhaps a man who has learned to appreciate control and order. You lie in your hotel room and think about that dogged determination infusing every part of him, making him loyal, making him lonely. 

Ioan says Hornblower is just insecure.

 

*

 

Things Ioan Likes:

  * Beer (Well, he's Welsh, isn't he.)
  * Rugby (Welsh.)
  * Blondes.
  * Bamber.



You admire the way Ioan will play the angles, draw something out as though it's always been there. Like the way he says _Archie_. He'll soften everything with just the name, make it sound like he's saying it in the warm shadow of Bamber's neck, make it sound like he's asking. Wanting. 

Ioan's a good actor, and he believes it. To you, that means he's in for a lot of shit. 

 

2002

Actual filming is about two percent of an actor's job, which leaves you a lot of time to sit around in a sagging deck chair and think. Ioan has a lot of scenes without Bush this time around, a bunch of them all about Hornblower and his not-quite-lady love. Not quite love. 

You're close to the sea, as always, and a sharp-eyed crowd of gulls are hovering, they don't take fright but they'll lift and fall like waves, watching for food in your fingers. Coulson's sitting beside you, tossing out tiny bits of mangled bread now and then in between leaning back and squinting at the sky. He's a nice kid, a bright kid and he's got a decent education behind him. Seems like he'd take things on the chin, if he had to. He's vastly different from his character, as much as an actor can be, but even so you have a fair idea of how little it would take to get under the boy's skin. Two fingers, you think; two fingers and Coulson would keen like an animal.

His cheeks are pink under the sun. Your hands are thick with blood, and your back hurts. 

Bush wouldn't take off the heavy woollen jacket, so neither do you.

 

*

 

"I'd like to try the American market," Ioan is saying over his pint. "You must have been to L.A.; such a great place."

You take your attention away from Robert a few seats away who, at the head of the table, is regaling everyone other than Ioan with a particularly astonishing tale, which you happen to know to be true. Except the part about the corgis. 

"I think it depends," you respond, "on what kind of work you want to do. There's times when you should take what's on offer and see where it leads." The restaurant lights are shimmering over Ioan's head, and a waitress with tied, dark hair is slipping between the clustered tables. "There's times you shouldn't."

"It's all experience, isn't it? That's what I want. I don't want to be one of those performers who restricts themselves: oh, I will only do such-and-such movies, or, I don't know, serious dramas with Kate Winslet. Though that would be nice."

A distracted expression appears on Ioan's face, and you smile helplessly at him. He has a tendency to daydream, you've learned, in between working as hard as he can. You can't help but like his enthusiasm, his confidence, the way he sometimes reminds you of your brothers. You can't help but like him. 

You take a swallow from your glass, watch a group of people leave the restaurant. The setting sun flashes along the wide door momentarily, until it swings back into place.

"I think you should make the best decision you can," you say. "But it won't always work out the way you'd hope." You shrug, steal Ioan's coaster, watch him smile back at you.

Another Thing You Like: not being Ioan Gruffudd. Too much water under the bridge from then to now, and Ioan's just at the start of it all. Still at the part where you think you're on an upswing, as if there is such a thing. There isn't. 

Ioan wants to be someone. You want to be remembered, remembered well. You're pretty sure they're not the same thing.


End file.
